That 70's vajazzle show

Like most people, I dream about work every now and then.  Seeing as I work in a stripclub in London, these dreams could seem quite vividly sexually bizarre to the Freudian crowd, or they are just another night at work, done in a surreal dreamlike way????

"The musical intro to that '70s show came on, and I was walking through a wood, beautifully dappled with sunshine and greenery.  I met a large family - kinda like the one from the show, but they were all dressed as woodland hippies. They invited me into tehir hut for something to eat, but before I'd had a bite of the delicious fruits and food on the table, the young middle sister grabbed me in a fit of jealousy, holding a blunt knife to my throat.  I screamed, but the others, seeing that the knife was blunt, figured I couldn't really get hurt and watched to see what happened.  The girl and I began to wrestle, I grabbed her hands and flung her to the floor.  Mid-tustle I remember thinking - "this is very un-like me to be so violent, but it's kinda fun", and a rush of adrenaline ran through me as I had the power and upper hand, now sitting astride the struggling girl.  Having managed to free myself from her grip and the knife, I ran away from the little woodland cottage, running faster as I realised I was by now very late for work.
I reached a Roman temple, which in my dream was my club, and promptly met a lovely smiling litle guy who wanted to go to VIP with me.  The VIP booths were down a maze of corridors, and were done Roman style, with flowing chiffon drapes hanging on the walls, and low banquettes and chaise lounges to sit and dance on.  We did half an hour, laughing talking and giggling about my nakedness.  Then his mate came along with another dancer, and joined our party.  When the half hour was up, we wanted to stay - my guy said it was the best time of his life, but the other man wanted to go and tried convincing his friend to leave with him.  
I looked down, and realied that my glittery vajazzle had slid across my body from all that fighting and dancing, and was now stuck like a sparkly chain motif around the left half of my waist. I looked at the twinkling sparkles on my skin, and woke up" 

When the going gets tough, the tough get going

It's half term here in England, the first half term of the school year, and in the strange world of the West End, it's always the quietest week.
The parents are at home, struggling to cope with the reality of having the kids around all day, every day, and the masses without responsibilities stay in too; Halloween is days away, and next to Christmas & the August Bank Holiday, it's a HUGE party weekender.  Plus no-one has got used to the cold and rain yet, and it will take until mid-November till people ignore the weather and go out regardless.

Of course, just coz the punters stop coming in doesn't mean that us exotic dancers stay at home too.

Nah, we still turn up in droves....

if you go to a stripclub in London this week you will have your pick, there will be ten beautiful girls to your one man (or woman!)

I'd say go down and support a stripper, but I'm getting the hell out of dodge and going on an impromptu holiday to Italy to see the sights and a few friends.  It's been a crappy week moneywise and rather than losing my curves to stress I'm gonna go eat hot steaming plates of creamy carbs, drink red wine till it dribbles down my chin and remember how sensitive my teeth are sucking on my gelato ( teeth whitening - you need pearly gnashers to be a smily stripper but that bleach makes them as sensitive as an octogenarians)

As they say in Italy, ciao!

Update on my butchered pussy

Thanks for all the kind messages written by those twittering readers who, grimacing in sympathy pains, read my post on an extremely painful waxing a few days ago.  I've been watching my lady garden heal and it's been an interesting set of developments....

Firstly, I've taken every night since off from work, because;

• The skin is red raw, and doesn't look paticuarly attractive.
• Little weeping spots and tiny scabs where a layer of skin got whipped off mean that I don't want to run the risk of infection from covering it with make-up or fake tan.
• The thought of chaffing as I pull my G-string up and down multiple times in the night makes me wince.  Lace panties would run the risk of getting snagged, nylon seems too sweaty, and big cotton granny pants are out of the fucking question for various obvious reasons.

I've even had to change my usual food, as I am a big fan of spices and chilli, but its been all salt and no pepper as the bum area has naturally been feeling a bit sensitive too.  You feel like a baby getting her nappy changed when the therapist hoists your legs into the air so that she can wax your crack.  My arse isn't a ring of fire, unlike my snatch, but it's still a bit tender from her manhandling and over-enthusiatic hot molten wax application, so best to err on the side of caution and eat plain fare.

The vajazzle is intact, but as the skin around it is so irritated it's taking real willpower not to pick all the gems off in a furious scratching frenzy.  The previous times I got vajazzled, I wore sexy and alluring underwear non-stop as I was so inwardly proud of my dazzling cunt that twinkled when I took a tinkle.  However, this time I have been slopping around in silk french knickers and cotton briefs from M & S and slobbing around the sofa in trackie pants and Thai fisherman's trousers.   The only dancing I've done in the past 72 hours was a dance for joy when I discovered my silk pajama's with a fleecy lining at the back of my wardrobe.  The epitome of comfort.... 

All-in-all, what should have been a standard beauty procedure to turn me into a smooth porno goddess has wrenched my bits apart till I am a hobbling feral-cat that scratches herself on the sofa more often than an ITV ad-break.  The only equipment I'm letting within a five foot radius of my poor frazzled pussy is a hot water bottle.  But I've discovered a solution.  It's friday, I've called in sick and the local pub doesn't mind if I wear the same trackie suit all weekend.  Alcohol is also a much better pain reliever than aspirin, paticuarly for butchered pussies (true- the ships cat's of old loved a tot of rum when on the high seas).  

I'm off for a pint....

Does waxing hurt more after sex?

Hobbling out of the salon with tears in my eyes, I have to ask - does waxing hurt MORE if you've just had sex?

I'd be inclined to say that it really, really does, as I remember the waxes I've had in far more vivid details than most of the sex I've had.  This waxing session will haunt me for the rest of my life.

I'd had a little shag and a nice orgasm in the morning, then popped out for lunch, and stupidly decided to see if my local salons had any walk-in's available.  I'd noticed that they had started doing vajazzling last time I was in there, and was really keen to get another one - I'm not a vajazzle virgin anymore, so have the chutzpah to make gungho decisions like walking into a salon and getting her bits ripped apart after a nice burger and chips lunch.

The hair was too short to grip to the wax properly - OWCH

Wax is also very hot - OWCH

She had to rewax some areas more than once as hairs failed to come out - OWCH

Any left-over hairs were threaded out - bits of cotton pulling at individual hairs - OWCH

The got out the tweezers once the threading had reduced me to tears - OWCH

Finally, she rewaxed with the cream wax to clean it up - OWCH

...Before pressing down hard on the vajazzle sticker to make it stick - OWCH OWCH OWCH

My skin has literally been flayed, my poor, poor little pussy is swollen, with angry looking bumps all over it that will probably cause some nasty spots and ingrowing hairs in the future.

The vajazzle sticker isn't even in quite the right place, it's more thigh than vaj, and the twinkles it gives off are bouncing of the red raw skin.  Even the crystals don't look right as they are not sitting on an enticing trimmed lady garden, but balanced precariously on a ferocious undulating tide of angry growler.

I'm sure that because my bits had been excited a few hours previously - lets say three - that it reacted with a vengeance once I put it through so much pain.  My poor pussy was probably all snuggled in the dark womb of my comfy French knickers, enjoying having been licked and loved, safe in the knowledge that I wouldn't be getting her out again till nighttime, where she would be squeezed into some sticky, stretchy nylon G-string, with a dental floss behind which sweated up my ass crack.  I'm sure she was very happy - that is until my brain randomly came up with the crappest idea of the century AKA hot wax, hair pulling, extra-strength glue and not a minute's warning.

No wonder my faithful friend is now sulking right royally, and will probably develop an itchy rash once the swelling, burning sensation has subsided, just to really make sure that I get taught a lesson here.

Doppelganger Stripper

I met my doppelganger last night.  She was a girl I hadn't spoken to before, but we got talking to a customer at the bar together, and over the course of the three-way conversation I knew straight away that we had a lot in common.

Some dancer's are like chalk and cheese, but the two of us were eerily similar - blonde, English, educated.  We both had long blonde hair, styled with a slight curl.  We were both wearing 50's style make-up last night - a smear of bright red lippie to set off our pearly whites, a thick flick of eyeliner and long lashes - but not heavy, more seperated and spidery.  It's the kind of make-up I like to wear on the slower nights - it's easy to do, you look beautiful but approachable, and make's a great impact on the older or more classy clientele.

I did notice however that her lashes were real, whilst I wore fakes at the outside corners - this gives a really natural looking effect, and, really really annoyingly, her teeth were far whiter than mine.  My teeth are white, but not that white - in fact they aren't even that white either, now that I'm looking at them in the mirror - getting stoned and drinking lots of red wine over the summer has stained my teeth quite a bit.  Best book up that dental hygenist again....

On the positive side, my tits were better.  So there.  Nobody's perfect, hey?

But don't think that I was silently bitching and scheming about my doppelganger - quite the opposite in fact.  I was really happy to meet a stunner who shared my style, and - big tick in the box here - was also English and could hold a decent conversation on lot's of interesting topics.  So happy in fact that when I saw her later I grabbed her for a double dance with another guy I'd been talking to, which is the ultimate stripper seal of approval.  Nothing say's 'nice to meet you - let's be friends' than a crisp 20 that someone else did the hustling for.  It's like money for free.

Doppelganger and I had a little goodbye chat at the end of the night too, and even checked what shifts we would be sharing next.  It's nice to make new friends in this industry, especially when they are pretty and pleasant!!!

I turn smokin' hot for Chicago

Drinking is the norm in UK stripclubs - this is one way that we are ahead of the States, as we allow full nudity flashing and gallons of booze in our tittie bars....
So there I was in a VIP a few days back - before I caught the stripper flu which has plagued me all week - with a couple of guys who were over from Chicago, USA, and two hot Eastern europeans.  We were discussing the differences between US and UK stripclubs, and how this one in London compared in particular.  The general consensus from the Americans was that the girls were hotter here, the club looked a lot nicer than some of the dives they'd been to in the US, although there were similar palaces of pussy plushness in the big cities, and finally, the UK was a lot stricter when it came to touching, and laxer when it came to drinking.

Now us girls are pro's, and whilst we are happy to discuss the differences, we are not going to concentrate on the bad points like 'no-touching-at-least-not-that-much-and-definately-not-my-bits-mister'.  So we all started praising about the drinks on the table and the drinks available and the Eastern European girls, true to form, started to yell for something stronger - shots in fact.

A round of shots, nice and clear in their little fluted shot glasses, appear  as if by magic and are shoved on to the table in between the champagne bucket and assorted glasses, packets of fags (smoked outside only), mood-light lamp and a rogue G-string.

The two Eastern-Euro's take charge.  Now these girls resemble the Tsar's sister's, with long straight sweeps of dark chocolate hair, Pocahonta's style, and big dark almond eyes - they look like a pair of beautiful slim Russian ballerina's, although I recall they were from one of the satellite's - Estonia, or Lithuania.  But don't be fooled by their dainty frame - these girl's can knock back the hard stuff, as they were eager to demonstrate.

"Letch drink wiv no hands, yezzz?!?" said the first prima-ballerina.

The Chicago guys whooped and hollered as she artfully pulled her long tresses out of the way, crossed her hands behind her, and gracefully bent down - no crouching here - and grabbed the glass in her mouth, pulling herself back up in a graceful flick as she knocked the shot back.

"Ummm, yummy" squealed the first prima ballerina in pleasure.

"Ohh, yez, itz my turn, yez?!?" said the second prima ballerina in her husky accent, and she was the epitome of grace as her long lean body leant down and gobbled up the shot, all legs and no-hands, flashing a dazzling smile in the lamplight as she did so.

The Chicago guys were very impressed - hell, so was I - and whooped and hollered for me to perform a similar trick myself.  The two prima ballerina's had made it look so easy that I was sure I could also drink a shot with both hands behind my back, so I bent over, lowered myself onto the shot glass, grabbed it with my teeth, and knocked it back..... Ta Da!!!!

However, as I came back up the two prima's were screaming and the Chicago guys were whooping and hollering and now waving their arms in the air and I could smell burning .... burning hair in fact.....

My hair!

As I'd leant down over the table my uber-flammable bleached tresses had got too close to the lamp, which unbeknownst to me hid a lit candle.  Whoosh! Like a tinderbox bits of blonde went up in Elnett flames.

One of the guys grabbed the cloth wrapped around the champagne bottle and doused it in the ice before applying it to my head.  Luckily it smelt worse than it was, and only a relatively tiny strand of clip-in extensions had been set alight, so my real hair was un-touched.

After thanking everyone, who were all in fits of giggles at my klutziness, I scuttled backstage and cut out the offending extensions, which stank of champagne and burnt hair.  Once these were gone & I'd sprayed some perfume on I was thankfully back to normal, and rejoined the merry party in the VIP booth, where we all got another few hours!  Hurrah!

I'm glad that I fucked up and maimed my fake hair in front of American's, who always have a good sense of humour for incidents like this, but I've learnt my lesson - don't enter into a space-race with Russian stripper's - I've got too much to lose, not least my fake blonde tresses! 

Stripper's all over Snoop Dogg

I went to see his Dogginess himself, Snoop Dogg, yesterday for some Friday night fun at the O2 arena.  (I'm not a big fan of the huge, soulless venue which stipulates that the show ends at 11pm precisely with no encore exceptions, as I'm more into dive bars and sweaty clubs when it comes to watching live music).  But the show was a fab suprise, as I hadn't realised how many songs were his - even though I was still battling my stripper-flu, I was waggling my little bottom on the terraces for a good hour and twenty!
Snoop Dogg is synonymous with strippers, biatches, ho's, and general gyrating hotty-botty's of the female persuasion.  I hear his songs at least once a night at any stripclub I've ever worked at, whether it's his old 90's stuff or the more recent bass-thumping crowd pleasers.  He even met a bunch of my friends when he launched his new album 'Doggumentary' at Platinum Lace last May.  I loved the pictures of him surrounded by sexy dancing pals in black spandex romper suits whilst he smiled, full row of gnashers gleaming, and sat on his trademark throne.
I was planning to go to work after, but then when the concert finished at 11pm I realised that I was too late even for the late late shift, and that my stripper flu was still hanging around, like a man in a dirty mac who is nursing the last drops of beer so he can drivel at the titties on stage.  I've spoken to lots of people who have similar symptoms of exhaustion and horrible hacking coughs full of green flem, so I guess something is going around ol'London town now that the heatwave has gone and the weather is changing back to it's usual drizzly English self.
So I guess I'll just have to keep my tiny toned arse sitting on the sofa for another night till my stripper flu subsides, and if I miss the club, I'll just recreate last night with some Snoop Dogg tunage...

Stripper does Geek - badly

Oops! As if more proof was needed that I am not the world's most technically efficient blogger, I haven't posted on my blog because I forgot my password....

Well technically I changed it because some nasty idiot had hacked into my email account and was spamming everyone, so I got advised to change my passwords by a tec-savvy regular who is not only my favourite customer but is also great when my computer explodes (figurativelly speaking - I haven't blown up my laptop - not yet anyhow).

Anyways, I thought it would be a good idea to change the passwords on ALL of my accounts, which I did,  making them all really difficult ones with $$$ and £££ signs and numbers in no paticular order and non-stripping related estoric words like 'aubergine' or 'rammification'.  I wrote down my new passwords on a bright yellow post-it note - so bright that I would never lose it - and went to sleep.

The next day I logged in ok and tapped the keys merrily, feeling pleased that I had thwarted the spammers, but of course after a few days the post-it has been lost under piles of washed underwear that I need to put away, some empty mugs of tea, a copy of Vogue and those library books I need to bring back.

So apologies for that, especially to the reader 'wasjustboredandcurious' whose comments have been sitting in my moderation box for ages.

However, in the meantime I did 6 shifts at the club, got a VIP at 5 of them, caught a cold from a customer and singed my hair whilst downing a shot.  Blonde highlights are obviously extremely flammable and I will take more care in the future.....